


The Gods Reborn

by SociallyIneptDork



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Tragedy, Basically the greek gods are sherlock characters, Fluff and Angst, Gods, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 15:21:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13297665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociallyIneptDork/pseuds/SociallyIneptDork
Summary: "We are the gods born into the modern world, with starlight in our lungs that longs to return to the skies," he said, eyes filled with weariness. "Carrying the sorrows that have accumulated over centuries like drops of silver and gold, which will become the weight of mortality on our shoulders."He paused, remembering the way Sherlock stood on that bridge, on the rooftop, the way the gun felt in his hand as a part of him screamed to shoot. "We must endure though. We inherited the skies and heavens, and now we have no choice but to lift with our knees and endure the weight of the universe upon our shoulders where our phantom wings slowly manifest."





	1. Introduction

I.

Sherlock was a god born into a time he didn't belong in

who had eyes that reflected the depths of the ocean,

his hair like the waves

and a heart that kept on drowning.

 

He was a young god living to die, to feel alive, to steal fire so he can light up his cigarettes,

breathing out the smoke of glory and light into every room he entered.

His eyes, resplendent with color and devouring light with their intensity

reflects his struggle of having the insight and knowledge to tear nations into dust,

knowledge no man should carry on their shoulders.

 

His curse is that he sees everything and knows pain no mortal man can endure.  _But he must._

 

II.

He bled gold and silver,

and you, a mortal, a dreamer, kept on collecting the droplets to sell

not seeing the wounds.

You were his prophet, his mouthpiece, his messenger,

the one tie he had in the world to connect himself to it.

You bent your knee in worship, but your knees ached

You stood too fast

and didn't understand why you felt so dizzy,

 

III.

A spell, you said, a curse.

 

IV

There was something beautifully devastating about breaking a god

and ravaging their hearts surrounded in ivory pillars, something which

you can safely say no other man had done before.

There's something about drawing blood, which is not truly blood,

because the blood of other mortals wouldn't make you feel delight as if you'd struck a goldmine.

 _Ichor_.

Your name on his tongue, hissing and whimpering, begging and screaming,

is  _sin_. But you love every minute of it.

You keep drawing your name from his mouth.

 

V

You call him by his previous name one night

a name he hadn't been called in centuries.

He screamed and the rain poured outside like the heavens were collapsing,

his eyes darkened with his agony, and his wings trembled like he wanted to fly away.

Maybe he did.

 _Atlas_ , you call him, touching his face. He recoils from your touch.

_Atlas,_

_Atlas,_

_Atlas_

_You will carry the weight of the universe all your life, Atlas._

_Endure._

His screams echo from the walls of the castle, but the thunder outside drowns it out.

 

VI

His eyes see through every part of your soul.

He can dissect you to the bone marrow and know every word you've left unsaid,

every word you've never meant,

every single thought that runs through your head.

You tell him you love him

and he smiles like he smiles at everyone that lies to his face.

You wonder if one day you'll receive the same fate as them.

Or if one day he'll finally believe you.

 

VII

His wings are colored in shades you've never imagined,

and his halo cuts you when you dare to touch him.

Your blood is red, useless, common,

but he forgets to breathe when he sees it, his eyes going wide at the reminder of how fragile you truly are.

You step forward to take his face into your hands

but he heals your wounds in a blink of an eye and in the next one,

he's gone.

He's a god, after all. You cannot find him if he does not want to be found.

 

VII

He says he did not realize how easy it is to break humans.

 

VII

You revolve around one another,

and history has you both written into its script.

His legacy will live forever, and you-

 _You_ , you mortal,

cannot die because you fell in love with a god and his touch is divine.

You cannot die.

Your name is written into the book of history

and you will live forever alongside your beloved.

You hope the wax wings he gave you can hold you up

and the sun will not blind you to your love for him.


	2. The Prophet Receives His Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John frowned. “Can you not heal my sister?”
> 
> Mycroft's expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that John couldn't quite decipher. A deep sadness, coming from someone who had lived for many years and had seen everything there was to see- murder, war, genocide, rape, the rise and fall of his brothers, empires being turned into dust- and John suddenly understood. He didn't enjoy it, but as the king of the gods now that his father had been locked away, he had a duty and couldn't interfere. He was the watcher, the observer, to make sure that humans would not tear themselves to shreds behind his back. He knew everyone's destiny and could not lift his hand to stop it.
> 
> “Your sister is healed, but she is not the worst of your problems.” John stared at him, knowing he should be joyful, but he knew there was something about to happen. Something ominous was lurking, ready to creep up on him and drag him downward into the bottom of the ocean. “It's time to choose a side, Doctor Watson. Something is coming, and you've been chosen to play a hand in it.”

They called him the God of Mortality. Almost everyone in London knew his name, and most have been to his temple at least once. He was the patron of London as a whole and the sky, but he was also the tutelary of smaller things, such as knowledge, bakers, sanctions, secrets, and justice. The air elementals would pray to him and leave offerings, going to his luxurious temple in the city and trying to reach him for hours or days until he heard their calls. He came to people in ways they didn't imagine and some say that he was tricky to contact. For the most part, he wasn't the one to be contacted, he was always the one to do the contacting. Dreams, visions, the like.

These were all the things John Watson had learned about Mycroft during his childhood, things taught at school and told to him by his parents. John had only been to Mycroft's temple once when he was a child, when his father was trying to bargain for his mother's life, but the god- who came to them in his human form, as he usually did with mortals- merely cocked his head and said what he said to the unfortunate ones.

“Everyone dies, Watson. How can this still surprise you? It's the only certain thing in your very uncertain world. Why should I prolong her life when it's already her time?”

And John's father, teary-eyed as he knelt on the tiles, looked up at him. “Because I love her. I would do anything for her!”

Mycroft merely stared at him for a few long seconds, before shaking his head. John distinctly remembered the way Mycroft had stared into his eyes, and it felt like he was being dissected down to the atom, a dancing darkness in his grey eyes.

“No,” he replied, “you won't. I'm sorry, I cannot help you. It is not my place to stop her death.” And that was that. He left- well, he vanished in a puff of black smoke. John could only watch as his father began weeping on the floor, devastated. He helplessly tried to comfort his father without knowing how to even begin. His father pushed him away, snapping at him with a sneer on his face, and John, weak and young, remained silent as they began the long journey home.

His mother was dead when they finally got there.

John decided that if he had anything to say about it, he would never bend his knee to Mycroft, the God of Mortality, so long as he lived. Some say that Mycroft himself was the one who did the collecting of souls, though nobody's proven or disproved that. Coming from the dead was impossible, after all, but John just wanted to show that if Mycroft could collect the sick and injured, John could heal them up right as new before he had a chance to collect them.

He finished his schooling and reached a level 7 with his studies, majoring in healing and battle magic, then signed up to fight in a war he didn't really know anything about. He was young, but he would be losing nothing by fighting in Afghanistan. Or so he thought. He was hit with a cursed bullet that left him in some hospital bed, and the doctors told him he wasn't fit for the job anymore. So he was sent back to London- sick, miserable and on a pension. He spent his first few days in an inn, feeling a bit more cheerful surrounded by people as drunk and stupid as he was, gambling some of his money away.

It was there Mike Stamford found him, and it was there the story truly began.

-

“John? John Watson!” Mike's cry could be heard even over the ruckus of the bar, and John looked up from his game of poker to meet the surprised face of his old mate from med school. Mike walked forward, a grin on his face as he looked at John. “I heard you were abroad getting shot at, what happened?”

John, still sober, blinked at him for a few seconds. “I got shot.”

Mike's mouth formed an 'o' and then nodded. “I guess that's fair. So you're back in London for good now, yeah? Or are you just staying in town till you can get yourself sorted?”

“Probably be moving from town to town. London's too expensive on someone with an army pension and nothing else. I doubt Harry'll help me much. She's already having some trouble with finances- what, with her book shop and all.” There was something in Mike's eyes then, and John didn't know what it was but it made something in him grow suspicious. Mike had and always will be a horrible liar. “What?”

“What?” Mike asked, trying to seem innocent but not quite managing to fool the likes of John Watson.

“You're hiding something. What is it?”

After a few seconds, Mike sighed deeply, deflating. His smile fell off of his face and John knew it was something serious. “I heard something recently- and I'm not sure how accurate this is, mind- but I heard someone saying that Harry's sick and it's bad too. They said something about her looking like she was dying and someone might have caused it- a curse or poison maybe, nobody's figured it out yet.”

John could only stare at him for a few seconds in incredulity and shock, his heart aching in his chest. He'd been planning to go visit her today, but he hadn't been able to get a chance. He'd put off visiting her because it was raining.

And she was _dying_.

“Oh my fucking god, Mike, I have to go!” he shot up from his chair and dashed to his room, throwing open the closet and taking what few things he had and shoving them into his bag. Within ten minutes he was in a cab, hoping beyond hope that his little sister was still alive and that the information passed to him was nothing but a rumor.

He didn't know what to do. Poison and curses weren't things healing magic could heal unless if he could figure out the source or find something to counteract it. Curses were different than attack spells, they were darker in nature and usually more fatal. Cruel as the one who created the first curse to begin with, but his name was not one John even wanted to think of, lest he invoke the wrath of the dark god.

The cab was painfully slow, and John wished suddenly he could just fly but knew that was impossible. He was no half-god or champion. He was just an ordinary man. When he prodded the driver to try and hurry up, there was no response, not that he was even expecting one. He spent around 30 minutes in the cab, and when he finally got there the rain had started to pour. The door was unlocked, and when he entered, he found his sister's partner Clara sitting by the fire and praying. He hung up his coat and didn't interrupt her, finding his way to Harry's room.

“Hey,” he said gently, sitting beside her. She looked sickly- her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, her eyes exhausted and her hands bony. She'd lost a lot of weight. “I heard you were sick. What happened?”

Harry smiled weakly, taking his hand into hers, just as she used to when they were children and they still slept in the same room. “By the gods, you really are back,” she breathed, her eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. “I thought I wouldn't live to see your face again. I've missed you.”

John nodded, pressing his lips to her head and pulling her to his chest. “I'm here now, Harry. Tell me everything that happened since I went away.”

So Harry did. She told him about how she'd gotten married to Clara against the wishes of Clara's father early on in the year, and how they spent weeks in the Gardens, where they celebrated their marriage. She gave Clara a spot in her shop, and Clara used most of her inheritance to build themselves a house of their own. Things went well- Harry managed to graduate as a level 5 and Clara was a level 4. That was, until later on in the fall, when they came upon an unsavory character by the name of Jefferson, who came to the shop to try and find books on black magic and necromancy. When Harry said they didn't have one and what he sought was illegal, he grew angered and left.

The next day, Harry fell ill. She received one letter that simply said _rache_ \- _2 weeks_. That was five days ago. She had only 9 days left. John remained still and pale-faced by her side, knowing that if black magic was being used, then there was certainly nothing he could do. When he pressed his hand to her pulse and tried to send some of the healing energy to her core, it dissipated as if there was a wall blocking it from healing her already depleting source of magic. Her core would eventually flicker out, and when the magic in her died, so too would she.

He sat there with his knees trembling. “Oh, Harry, why do these things always happen to us?”

“Because one of our great-great-great-great grandfathers probably pissed off a god. That's why.”

John laughed, shaking his head. “I'll go to the temple when morning comes. You should rest. I'll be in the guest room.” Harry simple hummed, nodding and staring at the far wall in front of her. John didn't move for the rest of the night, holding her close and trying to ignore the unimaginable looming over the both of them.

He didn't know which temple he should go to so he could beg for mercy. Mycroft was indeed the god of the sky and London, one of the strongest of all the gods, but he was elusive and not exactly prone to mercy if it went against his own set of rules. There were others, none quite as powerful, but they were often more merciful. He tried to run through the list in his head of all the gods he'd learned about, names carved into his school since primary.

James, god of fire, riches and mischief. Definitely _not_. He was usually against helping people and more interested in causing trouble for everyone, even at the ire of his brothers and sisters. 

Anthea, goddess of wisdom and war, Mycroft's creation and right-hand.

Sigerson, god of war and justice. He has been locked away in the pit for millenia, so unless if John wanted to unleash a bloodthirsty and vengeful beast upon the earth, it was probably a bad idea to try to summon him. It was likely he'd get turned into fried human on the spot anyway. He was the father of some of the gods, one which was Mycroft.

The longer he went through the list in his head, he began to realize that Mycroft was truly the only one who could help him. Despondent, he waited for early light to break so he could visit the temple before the crowds gathered and he was unable to find a solitary room for his worship. He packed some pieces of fresh baked bread, laurel leaves, and candles to serve as offerings, and a picture of a golden eagle to help channel his prayers. He left his sister in the hands of Clara, who looked up at him tearfully and said, “please. Do what you can to save her.”

John nodded and slid on his coat, his bag heavy at his side as he walked to the temple. His hands were covered in sweat by the time he'd finally made it to the base of the hill that the temple was built on, and with slightly trembling hands, he walked until he was inside. The temple was just as he'd remembered- luxurious, with a gold and ivory eagle statue in the middle that loomed over everyone else who stood in front of it, surrounded by a sophisticated fountain with water that looked more like smoke. Nobody dared to touch it. They'd learned enough from the legends.

It was just what could be expected from such a god.

Beautiful, elegant, but threatening and imposing.

With a sigh, John found his way to a room near the back, a single seat in the middle of the room that was surrounded by statues of horsemen that seemed to watch his every move. He took a seat and set out the offerings on the altar, letting out his breath as he stared at the empty space in front of him. The picture on his lap felt heavy. “Mycroft, God of Mortality, I am here today to ask for your mercy and seek your favor. I have left you these offerings, to try and... give my respect and show my devotion. Please, hear the words I have to say.”

He sat in the silence, his ears ringing. He turned the picture around and looked at the prayer written down on it, his mother's script making his chest ache. He kept reading, his eyes beginning to sting. This was his last and only chance.

“Please, heal the afflicted, and help them to recover through and through. I ask for you to give your blessing to my loved ones and-”

The light ahead flickered for a moment, and a voice addressed him. “This doesn't come natural to you, does it, mortal?” John swallowed, kneeling and bowing his head as he knew he was supposed to.

“No, my lord, it doesn't.”

Mycroft walked forward, standing in front of him, and John noted his pin-striped suit first. They were woven with what looked like pure darkness, shimmering as he stood there, the light almost... avoiding it. He didn't have much time to ponder on what type of fabric sunlight itself feared when Mycroft spoke to him again. “Your honesty... Quite brave, Doctor Watson. I suppose it's to be expected from a soldier such as yourself. Though, you must admit that bravery is simply the kindest word for stupidity, particularly when you are standing before a god.”

John remained silent.

Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on him for a few long seconds. “You are not ill,” Mycroft stated, eyes looking into him, _scanning_ him. “Why do you come here to ask for my favor? If you wish for me to heal your leg, I must tell you, it is only-”

“Psychosomatic, yes sir, I know. I came here for my sister,” John interrupted, his knee already aching. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to ignore the way the wind seemed to spin around the entire room. “Harriet Watson. She was cursed, I believe. Everyone suspects black magic. No potion or spell has been able to help her thus far.”

Mycroft was silent for a few seconds, contemplative. “Why should I heal her?” he asked, though his voice was not as cold or distasteful as John remembered from his childhood. It was softer, gentler, carrying the softness of curiosity one might find in a child.

“I would do anything for her,” John said through gritted teeth, echoing the words his father had once said to the same god, standing in the same temple. His blinked away the apparitions of the past, silently wishing that he would not receive the same answer as his father.

Mycroft looked down at him, sighing. “Stand and look me in the eyes, Watson,” said he, and John did as he was asked, looking into the brilliant electric blue eyes on the serious and proud face. He was quite tall, hovering at least a few inches over John, but he knew from legends he was far more godly when he shed his human visage. “Do you know of my brother, the God of the Sea and Mysteries, the patron of musicians and scholars?”

John slowly nodded. He'd heard of him before, spoken about in whispers during lunch or in the library as they read over texts. Nobody really mentioned him that often, because he was a young and restless god and he mostly kept to himself, neither helping nor hurting people he came across unless provoked. “Yes, sir.”

“Go to him. I will give you a map to his temple, and he will be the only one who can help you now.”

John frowned. “Can you not heal my sister?”

Mycroft's expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that John couldn't quite decipher. A deep sadness, coming from someone who had lived for many years and had seen everything there was to see- murder, war, genocide, rape, the rise and fall of his brothers, empires being turned into dust- and John suddenly understood. He didn't enjoy it, but as the king of the gods now that his father had been locked away, he had a duty and couldn't interfere. He was the watcher, the observer, to make sure that humans would not tear themselves to shreds behind his back. He knew everyone's destiny and could not lift his hand to stop it.

The gods were tired. John didn't know gods could ever grow tired. Thought there were meant to be hardy and brilliant and dazzling, but the man in front of him looked like a businessman who'd spent the day bargaining for a deal he got the short end of the stick on.

“Your sister is healed, but she is not the worst of your problems.” John stared at him, knowing he should be joyful, but he knew there was something about to happen. Something ominous was lurking, ready to creep up on him and drag him downward into the bottom of the ocean. “It's time to choose a side, Doctor Watson. Something is coming, and you've been chosen to play a hand in it.”

“A hand? What do you mean?”

Mycroft stepped forward, outstretching his hand. Hesitantly, John gave his left one as well, and Mycroft looked at it closely. “Remarkable. We've not had one in years. Sherlock has certainly never had one in his short existence yet. You must go to him, as soon as you can.”

John looked at his hand, confused. “What's remarkable? Had what?”

Mycroft gave him a small smile, but there was still sadness lingering in the corner of his eyes. The air surrounding them seemed to sing laments in John's ears. “You've been chosen as his prophet and scribe. It's been many years, quite possible at least 4 centuries, though it may be more than that since any of us had last had one. It never ends well, you see. My last one... well, he... It was quite tragic.” He trailed off as he turned away, his back to John, whose mind was still reeling from their meeting.

“Is that it then? Are we done here?” he sounded upset and nervous, even to his own ears.

The god didn't turn back around, instead taking the bread John had left as an offering into his hands and observing it. He dropped it again, wiping the crumbs off of his hands with a frown. John tried his best not to glare. 

“What's going to happen?” John asked, feeling fear creeping into him- something heavy and dark as oil injected into his veins, spreading through him like cancer.

Mycroft sighed. “It is not my place to say.

“Your map will be given to you within a days' time. You have until then to decide if you're going to take up this task.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos, comments if deserved!  
> Check me out on Tumblr. I post stuff :P I'm @socially-ineptnerd. That's both a joke and a warning label. Beware: I'm awkward.


End file.
